Breaking Through Blocks, Part 1

Tonight, my friend Jeremy hit a cement block with his hands and I watched as it broke neatly down the center. As he set up another block, he explained why some kung-fu schools, especially traditional ones, don't teach how to break with both hands - it has to do with energy and the body - and then, he looked out at us and said, "But my school does," and broke the second block with his opposite hand. It was amazing.

He offered to let me try before he smashed through them, and a few people laughed because I made a face and waved my hands, as in, no, no no. I'm not the sort of person who could remotely hope to smash blocks with my hands. I miserably failed my high school defense class because when it came down to the physical test, I couldn't escape my (female, high school) attacker. I was the only girl in my class who failed self-defense. Granted, my attacker was a very large girl. But the point is, even if she was a large girl, it still could've yelled "pinch and twist, pinch and twist!" and the girl would've let me go instead of roughly pushing me to the ground.

My friend Diana had a few years of karate -- I think she was a higher-up belt, perhaps brown, when she decided to quit. I don't remember why she did, but I do remember the picture of her in her uniform, posed, her belt bright around her waist. She looked so tough, so accomplished. The only lessons I got as a child was piano, which Diana also got, but I had to beg to take piano lessons from my aunt's roommate, Melinda. I never played in a recital or took the opportunity to display anything I'd learned. At one point, we stopped pianoing and Melinda taught me how to make dresses. I made myself two plaid jumpers, a la Mary Anne in the Babysitters Club series, and wore them with turtlenecks until I realized that they made me look like a fat Catholic schoolteacher, not a cute, willowy babysitter.

While I still enjoy the piano, I have never been a great seamstress. I don't have the patience for it. Unlike Jeremy, who is up to 60 kung fu poses and can probably hold them all for hours, I have trouble clearing my mind for a 60 minute yoga class at the gym. Perhaps it's because I lie on my mat knowing that even if I have a minute of clarity, that minute will soon be crowded out by dog walking and novel reading and multiple, possible storylines that will hit me at moments when I have nothing with which to write these brilliant ideas down. I'm a bit better at praying, since it requires thinking of people and situations and needs and wants -- focusing for several moments on one thing is easier than focusing for several moments on nothing. But I still find it very difficult. Sewing is the same ball of wax. First, there's the choosing of the pattern and then, a material that will work with the pattern. Then, the meticulous cutting out of the pattern pieces, complete with darts, and then, cutting the material around the pattern and darts and pinning it all together so that you remember which material goes with which pattern piece. Then, there's the threading of the machine and the bobbin and my fingers always feel bricky when I'm working with bobbins and thread. Then, there's the working with the machine's pedal and making sure that you go at the right pace, with the right stitch. For me, there's a lot of mistakes, a lot of sewing pieces together that shouldn't be sewn together, and thus, a lot of seam ripping and re-sewing. It's a lot of work. And sure, I might end up with a piece of clothing that I love, but after all that struggle, it seems a lot easier just to head down to the Macy's sale rack.

I remember making curtains with my college roommate Jenn (to block out the eastern exposure on our faces every morning, not for cutesy-type shits and giggles) and how her curtains came out perfectly, with neat stitches and perfect proportions, while mine came out with crooked stitches and gaps where I'd ripped and resewn. We put them both up, above each of our beds, and every time I walked into the room, I compared the two sets of curtains. I could see the precision, the time, and above all, the discipline that she put into her curtains.

I recently finished a memoir that tells the ten interrelated, but not chronological, stories that bring the writer, James Brown, to the realization that he needs to quit drinking and using, and when I try to imagine his life now, those same words comes up. Discipline. Precision. Time. Patience. Sewing and piano and self-defense never came easily, but unlike James Brown, whose sobriety saves his life everday, it has never been a life-or-death issue for me.